


dancing's not a crime

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 80's Music, Autistic Greg House, Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 22:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Wilson is a sap, and House, well, he's trying not to be.





	dancing's not a crime

**Author's Note:**

> gay rights!
> 
> fills the 'dancing' square in my valentines day bingo card
> 
> enjoy!

House is barefoot, and Wilson is wearing socks with his pajamas after breakfast. It’s an off day— Wilson has no appointments, House has taken the day off. House has spent the most time he could in bed, until he was forced out by his growing hunger. He has breakfast with his husband, and he downs a few Vicodin before heading to the living room. 

There’s music playing, though— eighties love songs. 

He rolls his eyes and cocks his head at Wilson, who only smiles at him.

There’s no need for words to be spoken— he heads towards him, feet against the cold wood floor and Wilson holding both his hands on his. It’s too affectionate, and in any other moment House wouldn’t want this— he’d be all too nervous and paranoid of someone seeing them, seeing them act domestic at all. 

Wilson twirls him around, kisses him, moves him around, asks him in soft whispers if he needs to stop every few minutes.

“Stop coddling me,” House grumbles, limping and following his lead. 

His step is feather-light, Wilson guiding him on every step. Wilson is too much, sometimes, but right now he’s perfect, leaving soft kisses along House’s jaw, not minding the way his scruff tickles him. He keeps him light on his feet, lets him be the follower and not the leader for once. It’s one of the few times he allows himself to just follow, to be mindless, to let Wilson lead the way.

House pulls him into a quick kiss before Wilson twirls him, fingers laced together. Maybe in a few hours he’ll regret this, having a flare-up or having to go back to bed, but right now it’s all worth it. The movement, the unneeded strain on both his legs, Wilson holding him up and letting him lean against him.

“You’re ridiculous,” House breathes, and Wilson rolls his eyes. There’s the kind touch he doesn’t allow himself most of the time too— Wilson puts his hands on his waist, kisses him languidly and slowly, like he’s something to be adored, like he’s something perfect, holy.

Wilson touches foreheads with him, pulls him the closest he can, and stops moving.

_ Heaven Is A Place On Earth _ plays, and House can let himself enjoy the moment. One of Wilson’s hand on his hip, the other in the small of his back, his forehead pressed against his own, his lips curled up into a smile he can feel but doesn’t see, his eyes fluttering shut as he soaks in the moment.

“Jimmy,” he says. Words are a little difficult today, but he deals. “You’re a sap. When the hell did you make this playlist—?”   
  
Wilson shuts him up effectively, pulling him into a quick kiss and leading him back to bed.

“You need to rest after that,” he tells him.

He can still hear Belinda Carlisle’s voice from the living room— _ ooh Heaven is a place on Earth… _

House hums and curls up next to Wilson, who hands him some pills. Wilson pulls a face when he swallows them dry, like he always does, and he wraps his arms around Wilson, burying his face on the crook of his neck. There’s no place safer than Wilson’s embrace— maybe his favorite place is his empty office, only his trusty tennis ball for company, where he can get an idea out of his head by stimming.

But he’s here, and there’s nothing better than Wilson’s arms around him, helping him stay afloat, helping against his pain, against his everything that goes on in his head. He knows the same is true for Wilson— for Wilson’s unspoken depression, for Wilson’s quiet troubles he never speaks about.

House can tell him over and over that he can tell him, that he won’t minimize it because he’s got bigger and more obvious emotional scars. But Wilson never listens— he’s as stubborn as House, after all.

“Can you—?” He swallows thickly, tries to focus. “Turn the music off?” It’s barely audible, but it’s still bothering him and his cuddling-Wilson plan.

“Of course.” Wilson presses a quick kiss to House’s forehead and turns to turn the music off with his phone, and soon their apartment is engulfed by comfortable silence. He turns back around, wraps House in his arms again.

They don’t speak, and there’s nothing better than the understanding they share in each other’s arms like right now.


End file.
